


Motor Cycle

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Series: Savor The Suffering [6]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alien Biology, Angst and Humor, Awkwardness, Bleeding, Brother-Sister Relationships, Cramps, Cuddling & Snuggling, Curiosity, Early Mornings, Explanations, Family Bonding, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Humiliation, Medical Procedures, Menstruation, Mild Cybertronian Swearing, Multi, Napping, Nausea, Obliviousness, Old Friends, Protectiveness, Shakiness, Storytelling, Sweet Ending, Team as Family, hinted romance - Freeform, parental concern
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early in the morning, Arcee is greeted by a centuries-old friend in her berth...definitely not a friend she's happy to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motor Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> Cybertronian Time Measurements:  
> Klik - 1 Second  
> Joor - 1 Hour  
> Quintun - 1 Week

Arcee _knew_ that pain in her chassis. Dread made her thrash against it as she came online from recharge, but that simply made her armor contract and pain her further. Grunting softly, she forced herself to sit up and hugged her arms against her abdomen.

 _Not today. By the Allspark, not today_. Squirming, she shuttered her optics and prayed harder, but it was to no avail.

“Scrap,” she cursed through clenched teeth, wobbling to her feet and shuffling stiffly toward her subspace compartment for a painkiller chip. It couldn’t work fast enough, she realized, heading into the washroom to sink down over the drain, shivering.

 _Scrap-Scrap-Scrap-Scrap_. She played the word over in her processor, wishing it could do something about her contracting armor. Leaning her helm against the wall behind the drain, Arcee forced herself to remain absolutely still. The chip finally clicked in and she vented a little more easily, but she didn’t want to look down again and see the cause of her problem waiting to be cleaned.

Time passed and still Arcee didn’t stand, already knowing her day was going to be ruined. A knock at her chamber door startled her and she bit back nausea at the movement.

“ _What?!_ ” she hollered impatiently.

“Arcee, you’re needed! We’ve located another energon site!”

Despite the fact that the voice was just as tense as her own, Arcee sagged in relief. Ratchet. Thank Primus. She started to rise and then clung to the wall by the wash-racks, groaning pitifully aloud.

“Arcee?” Ratchet called again.

Sinking back down gingerly, Arcee hugged herself and said nothing. Vaguely she heard Ratchet’s key codes activating for a medical-override unlock and then the medic fell into her line of view and she in his.

“Oh…your protosolvent.”

Ratchet’s voice was suddenly much gentler. He lowered himself onto one knee, inspecting the mess on the floor and the drain. This continued for a few long kliks, but it was only when he withdrew a tool from subspace and began _scanning_ the fluid that Arcee finally snapped at him.

“What’s so fascinating?! It’s energon, not some microbe for study!”

Ratchet glanced up at her with a frown. “I’m making sure your energon doesn’t _have_ any microbes I would need to study, thank you very much,” he chided sternly, pausing to look at the scanner and add, “Hm, trace amounts of oil, but that’s normal since it’s been a few centuries. Other than that, you’re clean.”

Arcee barked a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Yeah, ‘clean’ _definitely_ describes me right now. I hate this, Ratchet.”

Ratchet smiled sympathetically. “I have yet to meet a femme who enjoyed it.” Rising to his feet, he retrieved a shammy from the same subspace as the painkiller chips and began mopping up the energon. Arcee felt bad for letting him do all the work, but she knew she would feel worse if she moved to help.

When he was finished with that, Ratchet discarded the towel and reached out. Arcee placed both of her hands in his and was suddenly aware of how small they looked in comparison to his one. In a flash of memory she saw her Sire and looked down to hide the moisture in her optics.

Arcee was meticulous while washing the energon from her plating. Normally she would rush— _especially_ because one of her male teammates was present—but in this instance she was okay with it. Ratchet had no doubt seen many things worse, so she trusted him with this. The water in the wash-racks was warm and comforting, but by the time she emerged the painkiller chip had worn off.

Ratchet noted the discomfort on her face. “Contraction?”

“Y-Yeah.” Even to herself, Arcee was a little shaky. “It’s bad.”

“Yes, it would be. Has your CPU activated the blocking program?” Arcee nodded, already sensing its work at hindering the energon flow, and Ratchet nodded back. “Good. I’ve messaged Optimus on internal comm. systems—”

“You _what_?!” Arcee gasped. She should have known better than to trust him. She should have suffered to this point on her own.

“By the Allspark, calm down,” Ratchet rebuked her sternly. “You think Optimus wouldn’t understand this? His sweetspark _was_ a female, you know! She had to suffer through this just as you do. As I was saying, Optimus has relieved you for the quintun so that it can pass.”

Arcee unwound from her indignant pose, flinching as her chassis metal creaked painfully. “Okay,” she relented breathlessly.

“Now let’s get you to your berth,” Ratchet concluded. “I trust you won’t protest.”

Once swathed in a mass of warm tarps, Arcee twisted and turned until she was lying perfectly straight. Ratchet sank down on the edge of the berth and took her hand in his once more, inserting another painkiller chip into her wrist.

“Anything else I can do?” he asked after a moment.

Arcee hummed tensely, trying to distract herself from the tightly-clenched gears below. “Tell me about Optimus’ sweetspark. What was her name?”

Ratchet smirked. “Elita One.”

Arcee’s optics widened. “So the rumors are true!”

“ _Were_ ,” Ratchet corrected, his short-lived smile already gone. “She went offline eons ago.”

“But there must be _some_ funny stories of when Elita and Optimus were together,” Arcee protested stubbornly.

Ratchet feigned reluctance in his sigh before readjusting to a more settled position. “Very well, Arcee. There was, of course, the revealing of their relationship to our other friends. Prowl didn’t seem to understand at first—his logic circuits were always frizting—while Bluestreak instantly set into Elita to interrogate her. Ironhide wouldn’t speak to Optimus; he hated the fact that Optimus hadn’t told him and he hadn’t figured it out himself. But among all that, Jazz slipped up to me and told me that this was too great an opportunity for mischief to pass up…”

Arcee listened until the pain reliever sent short bursts of static over Ratchet’s words and then she recharged.

—

Some joors later she came back online and found the room empty. Empty, but not exactly quiet. She almost thought she could hear whispers from the other side of the door.

“Ratchet?” she called curiously.

“See, she _is_ awake!” That theatrically loud whisper was undoubtedly Smokescreen.

“ **We should be allowed to see her!** ” a series of buzzing added—Bumblebee. “ **Unless she _isn’t_ just deprived of recharge like you said, Ratchet.** ”

“Yeah, doc,” Wheeljack drawled. “What’s goin’ on?”

Arcee smiled a little at the vexed sigh from the medic. “Wheeljack, how many fragging times—!”

“Fine, fine, _Ratchet_ ,” Wheeljack cut him off. “Is…the little lady okay?”

Lifting herself onto her elbows to shout that she was fine, Arcee stopped herself before she began. Her cocoon would need to be washed before it stained. Muttering another curse under her breath, Arcee struggled into a sitting position and then refocused on the situation at the door just in time to hear:

“We would appreciate an update on her condition, old friend.”

Ratchet stammered a little at the seriousness of Optimus’ tone, but he was outspoken by (scrap, they were _all_ out there, Arcee realized in a panic) Bulkhead.

“Update? The rest of us don’t even know what her condition is!”

“Optimus,” Ratchet pleaded in that voice he resorted to in only dire circumstances. He wouldn’t hold out much longer against all of them, Arcee knew, so she frenziedly flipped the tarps and folded them this way and that so the energon was hidden. She straightened herself, refreshed her blocking program, folded her hands and waited with a composed expression even as agony trailed up and down her frame.

Sure enough, the reluctant medical-override beeps sounded only seven kliks later. Ratchet stepped aside just in time as Smokescreen and Bumblebee rushed the entrance. Bulkhead squeezed unceremoniously through after them, followed by Wheeljack at the stroll, and then Optimus, ducking the top of the doorframe and guiding a mournful Ratchet gently by the elbow.

“Hey, Arcee, you look…fine…” Smokescreen looked almost a little disappointed when he saw her.

“Did you expect me to be bleeding all over my tarps?” Arcee asked casually, glancing minutely at Ratchet, whose optics glinted nervously. Optimus, of course, caught the look, but he was the only other one in the room to know that she was on her cycle, so it didn’t matter.

“No, but I kinda expected you to be…sick or something,” Smokescreen admitted.

Wheeljack laughed, shaking his helm and folding his arms over his broad chest. “ _You_ thought she was going to have Cosmic Rust!”

“Did not,” Smokescreen scoffed.

“ **So…you okay, Arcee?** ” Bumblebee cut in before the argument started.

“Just fine,” Arcee replied coolly. “I’m feeling a little better.”

“That’s good news to hear,” Optimus replied, his tone just as steady. “If my knowledge is accurate, you should fully replenish your strength afterwards.”

“Replenish it from what?” Bulkhead demanded.

“Recharge deprivation, of course,” Arcee sighed, throwing up her hands as though she couldn’t believe he wasn’t understanding. “Why do you think I’ve been resting?!”

“Yeah, you look comfortable,” Wheeljack agreed, leaning forward and seizing the edge of one tarp. “How many blankets is this?”

“No!” Arcee and Ratchet both yelped at once, but Smokescreen drowned them both out with his scream.

“Ratchet, medical emergency! She’s—look at her, look at her, she’s—energon _everywhere_!”

“Smokescreen, calm down!” Ratchet hollered back, snatching the tarp from the gaping Wheeljack’s fingers, discarding it, seizing a fresh one and tucking it around Arcee’s legs in one fluid motion. Afterwards he turned on the rest of Team Prime with a venomous glare. All but Optimus tried to look past him at their comrade, who hunched down out of their sight.

“What…is it?” Bulkhead asked uncertainly, causing Arcee to groan and hide her face in her hands.

“ _It_ ,” Ratchet sniffed, going from protective to patronizing in a matter of moments, “is what’s called a _protosolvent cycle_. Femmes in their adult frames who have not proto-created develop it. Essentially it is the excretion of a creation’s ghost-spark.”

There was a moment of silence and then Wheeljack laughed hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck cables, looking relieved.

“If that’s all it is,” Bulkhead ventured, “it’s probably not so bad.”

“It is not something to be trivialized, Bulkhead!” Ratchet lashed again, glaring at _both_ Wreckers. “As the ghost-spark leaves, the femme can be subject not only to heavy bleeding, but to high fever, helm-ache, swollen protoform, abdominal contractions, backstrut pain and extreme fatigue! Sometimes it results in _complete debilitation_! Can you consider for a moment how you yourselves would handle unending berthrest?!”

By the distasteful expressions on their faces, Wheeljack and Bulkhead didn’t even want to attempt the thought.

“Is Arcee gonna…die?” Smokescreen whispered, his optics huge with dread.

“And it is also not something to be inflated into the crisis of the century, Smokescreen,” Ratchet sighed, rubbing his chevron. “Protosolventing ends after a quintun and won’t return for a few centuries at the least.”

“ **Good,** ” Bumblebee beeped out worriedly. “ **I’m not sure I wanna see it again, at least not until we’re back on Cybertron and you’ve got good medical supplies to take care of her, Ratchet.** ”

“I do what I can,” Ratchet muttered, but there wasn't much resentment in his tone, only wistfulness.

“And it is enough,” Optimus informed him, his tone daring anyone to disagree in his presence. Of course no one did and Ratchet ex-vented, rousing his crankier side.

“Alright, vacate the premises, all of you! As I said, berthrest for the femme! You can dote on her later.”

“If she _lets_ you. Obviously she would only want to do the fun stuff I have planned,” Smokescreen snarked before bouncing out of the room so no one could make a grab at him.

Arcee watched as Ratchet began ushering the rest out with him, but Wheeljack slipped past and sat next to her on the berth, studying her with more seriousness than she’d seen on him in…well, since they’d met.

“You can rest while I’m here, right?” he questioned. Arcee blinked a few times, surprised. Finally she nodded, just because she was finding it hard to crane her neck and meet his optics any longer. Surrendering a little bit further, she rested her helm against a groove in his shoulder and found, to her even greater surprise, that it seemed made to fit there.

Ratchet opened his mouth to protest Wheeljack’s presence, but Optimus brushed his arm and gestured that they should leave.

“You know where that could lead, Optimus,” Ratchet said calmly as the door closed behind them. “It…could endanger them. Like Tailgate. Cliffjumper.”

“If it reaches that point, I will speak to them,” Optimus assured him. “Until then, they will be friends.”

Ratchet pursed his lips, but they couldn’t help twitching into a smile immediately afterward. “I wonder what Arcee will think of herself for that. After her emotional instability wears off, I mean.”

Optimus glowered. “The same emotional instability you and Jazz exploited in Elita One when you barricaded us into the living room?”

“Don’t tell me you regret that. You shared your first kiss!” Ratchet countered.

“True,” Optimus relented. “And it _was_ bound to happen, given the opportunity.”

Ratchet’s face contorted in the equivalent of human blanching and he snuck a glance back toward Arcee’s doors.

“Just friends, Ratchet,” Optimus soothed. “They’re just friends.”


End file.
